Authors: Ronan Frost
Myshia found herself unable to look away from the
shattered faceplate of the guard. The yellow metal helmet had
splintered and the shards had buried themselves into the fleshy
face of the Sunlord. The reptilian visage was ripped and oozed
thick blood, one eye hanging from its socket. Bile rose in her
mouth and she fought to contain it, looking away quickly and
clenching her fists. She had seen so much death, and no end seemed
in sight. The cold metal of her pistol seemed to grow slippery in
an instant as if it was trying to worm its way out of her hand and
fall to the floor, but she clung onto it resolutely. She was doing
this for the Elder, and all the others who had died with the
Sunlord invasion.
When she brought her eyes back to the fore her
conflicting emotions had been put behind her. The bizarre changes
in her head had been confusing, like the opening of a door in her
head and cold blue sea water gushing in. She didn't fully
comprehend what was happening to her and the changes that were
coming about, but all she knew was that she wanted to get back in
touch with Ashian and Capac as soon as possible.
Shaun was already halfway down the corridor.
"Hurry up Myshia. This way to the com-lab."
She slung the pistol into the belt looped over a
shoulder, dancing over the shattered metal pieces of machinery that
had once been a robotic barricade. Her leather moccasins hit smooth
floor again and she broke into a run after Shaun, following him
closely down the confusing maze of passageways of the Urisa.
Chapter Fourteen
City.
Alas, my everlasting
peace
Is broken into pieces.
- Thomas Hood.
The orange orb that was the sun hung just above the
treeline, casting long deep shadows over the red baked earth. A
line of ten combat tanks rumbled in orderly precession, metal
creaking on metal and tracks slicing and crunching through hard
soil. Cyclic whining noises filled the air as the huge vehicles of
war rumbled past, shaking the very earth and sending small
creatures scurrying for deeper cover. The tanks were squat, the
widely set apart tracks giving them the appearance of a crouching
monsters hugging the ground. Atop the black smooth hull was a
rounded turret and cannon that turned lazily like a head inspecting
the passing terrain.
Following closely behind the ten combat tanks were
six rows of troopers in full scale battle armour, red sashes
whipping in the breeze indicating they were of the Hartrias forces.
There were five hundred in all, each moving with regulated steps to
appear as one great interlinked machine.
Footsoldier Crane moved his eyes sideways in the
confines of his helmet to better gaze at the sinking sun. His eyes
narrowed as he took in the splendour of the sunset, the shielding
of the faceplate allowing him to look directly at the burning
sphere. He suddenly stumbled, his heavy boots catching on a root
that had been pulped with the passing of the tanks, and had to
break into a quick step to maintain his balance. He had often seen
veterans move easily in the hydraulically controlled exoskeleton
that was the combat suit, the old soldiers making the two-hundred
kilo armour look like a leisure suit, but footsoldier Crane was new
to its bulk. He managed to regain his balance, flushing behind the
shaded visor.
"Footsoldier 29051 dash 7," came a voice in his ear.
"Report."
Crane turned and saw the Footsoldier marching
alongside staring directly at him. The others face was visible
through the tinting of the helmet visor, his eyes deeply set into a
visage etched with experience, the muscles around the snoutlike
Hartrias jaw pronounced. Crane spoke into the microphone that
curled around his head and terminated a few centimetres before his
lips.
"Sorry sir. Equipment is alright, I just
stumbled."
The older footsoldier studied him for a moment
longer, then turned his eyes back, turning the microphone off with
a brief snap of static. Crane pulled his eyes away and set them
upon the back of the marching footsoldier before him in a steady
gaze that would have to be kept up for hours on end.
Crane had first joined the Royal Fleet only five
years ago, and was part of the contingent sent by the Rplore that
was to help the Urisa teams establish the defence bases. Unlike
many of those aboard the Urisa, the Rplore was a relatively new
battleship that had been newly commissioned into service, its crew
well qualified - the best technicians of their class - but few of
the soldiers had actually seen combat. The war had taken a heavy
toll of the Hartrias population and as many hands as possible were
being put to use aboard newly constructed ships of war. Of course,
the bio-labs were busy producing hundreds of genetically perfect
crewmen, but even those took time to develop. It would be a matter
of years before the new breed of crewmen controlled the Rplore, a
breed that were so remarkably alike they would work together as a
single organism.
Footsoldier Crane had been taken from his home on the
planet Roiadia, a hot red planet terraformed and settled by the
Hartrias three generations previously. The recruitment ship had
gathered all the young fit men, and had put them into immediate
training. Of course, Crane didn't realise that within a year he
would be marching over the soil of a planet that would secure the
place of the Hartrias throughout the galaxy.
As a well read crewman, Crane knew the full
implications of the Critical Point. Although the Rplore's mother
computer had been quiet concerning details of the matter, Crane
knew that when they controlled the Critical Point they controlled
the universe.
He shifted the weight of his heavy gun, the
synthi-leather strap creaking in chorus to the rest of the squad's
as they marched forward.
Footsoldier Crane had been briefed on the short trip
planetfall. They were going to take control of a nearby native
settlement that was located in a strategic position near the
world's equator. Geosonic research indicated it was the only patch
of hard soil for miles and the primitive city would be put to good
use as a solid foundation for one of the massive skycannons that
would be constructed.
Crane lowered his jaw and sucked on a straw, drinking
the vitamin and energy enriched liquid that would keep his muscles
moving tirelessly. His eyes never left the back of the footsolider
before him, studying the notches in the battlearmour in vague
interest and hearing the rumble of the forerunning tanks in his
ears.
He was momentarily startled when a mechanical voice
clicked on full volume over his earsets.
"In range. Target closing - estimated arrival 198
seconds."
Crane immediately snapped to attention, the computer
aided vision of his helmet making light the darkness of night
around them. He saw they were atop a hill, flat barren plainlands
stretching down towards the square blocky shapes of the native
city.
They took a direct route into the city, not fearing
any opposition. The tracks of the tanks crushed over rows of
irrigated land, ripping up the cultivated land and half-grown crop.
As they crew closer Crane could make out details of buildings, all
nestled close to one another and constructed off crude blocks of
limestone. A few of the natives emerged, blinking in the dark and
holding burning torches above their heads, looking for the source
of the heavy rumbling that grew louder with each passing
second.
Footsoldier Crane couldn't help but grin as he
watched the small thin creatures fleeing down cobblestone streets
calling their panic. The tanks crashed through the city walls as if
the latter were made of paper, blocks of chiselled stone breaking
apart as the sledgehammer face of the tank hit. The tanks made
their own gate through the city walls, making a passage wide enough
for all four columns of footsoldiers to march through unchecked.
They walked over limestone that had been reduced to rubble, a layer
so flat it was almost sand.
The contingent from the Rplore split into five
groups, peeling apart in precise military formation. Footsoldier
Crane followed out the orders that came through his headset,
fitting into the working machine that was the Hartrias army as if
he was a cog. Although his face was steely flat inside he felt a
growing sense of power in his stomach. The natives were fleeing
from their approach, stumbling away like water beading from the
oily surface of a sphere. He swung his rifle around and unclipped
it from its catches, sliding back the heavy bolt - internal
machinery clicking into place. The other footsoliders moved in
similar patterns, and within moments all had their rifles cocked
and levelled.
And then the firing began. Crane grinned as his
computer sighting picked up target after target, each burst from
his wide muzzled rifle finding its target.
The currach had no place to hide. Wherever they hid
the Sunlords always seemed to able to see them. No barrier could
stop the raking fingers of bullets that tore through walls and
splintered wood.
The screaming of many pierced the cold night air.
Formerly quiet still streets echoed with the rattling of multiple
machine guns, the dark night lit with finger-like flames from
steaming muzzles.
* * *
A dull glow lit the confined room, the flickering of
the hurriedly lit the fire casting pockmarked shadows over the
rough surface of the walls. The leather door flap was cast aside
and three more currach entered, stumbling over themselves in their
efforts to keep in a tight group. The forerunner of the three bowed
his head into his hands, dragging his long shaking fingers through
a scalp of short hair, his eyes still bleary with sleep but wide
with terror.
Ten other currach crowded the room but hardly took
any notice as three more joined their ranks. They were all speaking
at once, trying to ascertain what had happened and if anyone could
make any sense of it. The sounds of screams and destruction could
be heard outside, deep reverberating thumps vibrating through the
floor as distant buildings collapsed in a heap of rubble. Bright
yellow flashes accompanied the heavy fthump fthump of the tank
cannons, intermittent burst of machine gun fire sounding like
thousands of giant bees all taking to flight at once. Lulls in the
gunfire allowed the mingled screams of Currach to reach their ears,
cries of mass hysteria as an entire city of hundreds erupted into
chaos.
"Quiet down!" called a grey haired Currach to those
inside the room. When he saw no abate in the confused hurried
conversation he raised his voice. "Listen to me!"
The thirteen currach stopped mid-sentence and turned
their wide, emerald eyes upon him. In the dying light of the fire
their jaws seemed gaunt and their shoulders slumped, the panic in
their veins turning limbs to lead.
The old man was the head of the building
establishment and it was his duty to represent the currach dwelling
nearby in the Council. He was an old man, but well respected, and
that was why everyone had gathered in the Caretaker's room as soon
as the fighting had begun.
"The Sunlords are here," said the Caretaker abruptly.
There was no time for the verbal pedantic so often associated with
currach activities. Even as they spoke the sounds of fighting
seemed to close in on them like a sweeping tide.
"They have finally come to take the city." The
Caretaker nervously scratched the side of his hairless jaw with a
bony, wry finger. "The only thing I can see is to send for the
League of Steel."
None of the currach spoke but the room was far from
silent. A nearby structure had fallen, littering the cobblestone
street below with pieces of limestone and granite. A fire had
started and it licked at the fibrous roofing of the rows of houses,
growing and crackling like a hungry beast. A weakened beam atop the
Council Chambers collapsed with a terrific crack, spitting a shower
of red embers like cast confetti.
The old man's eyes reflected the red flickering light
from the window. For a moment nobody moved. Their voices dropped as
glances were cast amongst the midst. An aged woman who lived the
floor below the Caretaker coughed heavily, her breathing heavy and
laboured as if she had just scaled ten flights of stairs. Towards
the back a young apprentice at the Council Hall bowed his head and
stared at his feet, his mind blank. Nearby, Georn reached out his
hand to find his wife's. Their hands clutched tightly to one
another, Georn anxious to give comfort to his pregnant wife.
The world seemed to have stopped for that space of a
few heartbeats. The fire and destruction outside seemed to have
lost relevance as the closely knit community group drew together,
their breathing slowing and seeming to fall unconsciously into a
communal rhythm, like a single organism. The smell of fear was
stale in the darkness of the Caretaker's small room. They had seen
the work of generations come tumbling down in the space of minutes,
the very fabric of their lives torn asunder.
The quiet currach let the Caretaker's words sink in.
Calling upon the League would be admitting defeat, for the Church
had outlawed them. But now was different. Now their homes was at
stake and not a single person voiced disagreement.
The Caretaker watched, taking the silence as
reluctant agreement to his proposal. He opened his mouth and spoke.
"Who shall call upon the League?"
His words were dramatically highlighted with as a
nearby shell hit a neighbouring building, this time the shock wave
making them all stagger. Georn drew back as he sensed a movement
from the corner of his eye. The small shadow moved between him and
his wife, moving between the legs of the gathered currach to stand
before the Caretaker.